


Blackmail

by KoreArabin



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Play, Bondage, F/M, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2014-02-04
Packaged: 2018-01-09 08:16:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1143669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KoreArabin/pseuds/KoreArabin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Load up the syringe, my dear.  Mr Moriarty's about to discover what it is to be owned.  Owned by <i>me</i>."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You've been sent here because you're a naughty boy. You need to be disciplined."

Jim comes to slowly. Groggily. His head should hurt more, surely, after being dosed up with enough tranquilliser to knock a fucking horse out? Fucking Sebastian. Fucking bastard, sneaky, traitorous little fucking bastard.

The events of the evening come back to him, slowly but all too fucking vividly.

Jim being manic, tarted up to the nines in Westwood, yellow rubber gloves on, a bottle of bleach in one hand and a brillo pad in the other, scrubbing frantically at the sink plughole, convinced that it had been contaminated beyond endurance by Seb's earlier fry-up. The frying pan in the bin, scrubbed to the point that the Tefal had given up the ghost and there was no way it was ever going to be non-stick again.

Seb's plate, cutlery, the sunflower oil spray and - most insultingly, from Seb's point of view, no doubt - his bottle of HP sauce also in the rubbish bin.

So - where _is_ Sebastian?

~o~

His surroundings swim gradually into focus. Pale, neutral walls. A long sash window - _original glass - old, very old_. William Morris Willow Boughs patterned curtains.

A bed. An _ominous_ bed. _Ominous_ not because the bedspread he's laid across is such a delicate shade of pale pink, but ominous because it's latex.

More ominous perhaps is the fact that he's naked. Naked, and cuffed to the bed. The leather cuffs binding his wrists together are secured to the top of the bed. The - presumably similar - cuffs around his ankles are (as far as he can ascertain, twisting his head back and down towards his feet) attached firmly to the posts at the foot of the bed. Apart. _Wide_ apart.

And he's not lying flat either. His hips are resting on a delicately pink latex-covered bolster, canting his backside upwards which, coupled with his splayed open legs, displays his arse and genitals rather obviously, thank you very much.

Irene. _Irene?_ She says.

"You've been sent here because you're a naughty boy. You need to be disciplined."

Charles Augustus Magnussen, standing off to the side, smiling. He says.

"Load up the syringe, my dear. Mr Moriarty's about to discover what it is to be owned. Owned by _me_."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's a head harness. Attached to a gag, clearly. A _penis_ gag. Not that I anticipate that you need any training in swallowing _cock_ , but Irene tells me that they're so humiliating, when they're forced into your mouth and locked into your throat."
> 
> Charles Augustus Magnussen smiles down at him, his perfectly tailored appearance in stark contrast to Jim's nudity.
> 
> "So, tell me, Mr Moriarty. Are they humiliating? Are you _humiliated_?"

Coming to groggily is becoming a habit. A fucking bastard pissing-offingly _bad_ habit. One he should try to kick. Like he kicked the horse when he was a skinny little short-arse ADHD nightmare terrorising the streets of Dublin. 

Like he's kicked every fucking bad habit he's ever allowed himself to pick up during his relatively short (nowhere near the three-score-years-and-ten he recalls from Children's Liturgy), violent ("Do head shots always sound like two wet planks being slapped together, Moran? Is a gut shot always more of a hollow thump, Sebastian? Does a leg bone strike always make a sharper noise, baby? Tell Daddy more, when your mouth's free...."), wonderfully successful ("Papa Frankie on line 1, Boss, and da big BO - fnarr fnarr - fighting with Vlad the - fuck-he's-looking-coyly-into-the-Skype-thing-and-taking-his-shirt-off-again-but-oh-so-clearly-not-ga... - shut it, Sebby! - to be on line 2, Boss") life.

He tries to shout, to tell whatever pieces of fucking currently-walkingandbreathing-soon-to-be-inanimate-fashion-accessories who've done this to him to fuck off before he decides whether his need for a new belt or shoes or wallet is more pressing, but nothing's coming out.

Oh.

There's an enormous gag filling his mouth. Fuck. Shaking his head to clear the fog, Jim tries, experimentally, to move his lips. They're stretched wide around the column of - silicone? latex? - held fast deep in his mouth and throat, barely allowing him to breathe. Crossing his eyes, he registers the strap running upwards from the bridge of his nose and over his forehead, secured by means of two bifurcating straps either side of his nose to the one fastened tightly around his head.

"It's a head harness. Attached to a gag, clearly. A _penis_ gag. Not that I anticipate that you need any training in swallowing _cock_ , but Irene tells me that they're so humiliating, when they're forced into your mouth and locked into your throat."

Charles Augustus Magnussen smiles down at him, his perfectly tailored appearance starkly in contrast to Jim's nudity.

"So, tell me, Mr Moriarty. Are they humiliating? Are you _humiliated_?"


End file.
